Angel
by WolvesChaseRabbits
Summary: Post Reichenbach. From how John handles the "death" up to a confrontation 3 years later when Sherlock returns. However, when John doesn't take it too well, what can be done but to seek help? But the real question is; from who?


A/N: The underlined words are from a song called "I Miss You" by TIEN. I actually wrote the fic out before my iPod decided to shuffle this song forward and I thought "oh, what the hell. Let's just slot it in anyway!"

120612

_**To my honey;**_

_**I bought you some coffee.**_

_**Please don't shoot my new hat.**_

_**PS. I want proper jam.**_

_No_

_It's not the same to try to start to_

_Everything feels like a dream_

"Have a look at this, Sherlock. It's got to be a seven, at least." He tilted the thin grey papers in his hands skywards a bit for his friend to see. He cleared his throat. "I'd say; the butler did it." With a sigh, he leaned back onto the flat stone behind him, folding the papers under his arm.

"Do you remember when I said that I'd move out of Baker Street because I couldn't go back to the flat? ... Yeah, well, I haven't moved out yet. Couldn't find another place. ... Oh. Did I tell you? Mrs Hudson bought some jam the other day. She commented on how empty the fridge was without all the body parts you used to keep in there for your 'experiments'. The microwave is oddly neat now, too."

He sucked in a deep breath, letting the air rush in but failing to fill the cavity in his chest. He held that breath, closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, the lump already rising in his throat. "Damn you, Sherlock." He muttered and stood up. "Just... Damn you."

He began to take purposeful steps forward, his hands clenched on either side. Then he stopped. And with his head bowed and shoulders shaking, he turned around and walked back slowly.

He let his fingers run over the engravings gingerly and whispered. "It's been weeks, Sherlock. Just... Just come back. Please. Come home."

_I'm drowning in the dreams_

_I still have about you_

_And I felt my heart ache_

_It's too late to call you_

He dialed a number and pressed the phone to his ear.

_ring..._

_ring..._

_ring..._

_...Click._

"Hello? Sherlock. It's John, but you probably already know that. Anyway! I just called to ask when you might be coming back. Mrs Hudson doesn't know where to start clearing up the flat. I keep telling her to wait, but then she looks up at me with these sad eyes and I don't know what to say.

The other thing is that Lestrade's still calling me in to help him solve some cases. I'm not quite sure why, since you're the one who actually solves it, but he says because I've been around you for so long, some of your deduction skills has probably rubbed off onto me. I disagree. I mean, how ridiculous does that sound?

Molly's been kind of detached lately. And she keeps casting me these pitiful gazes. Oh, then there's Mycroft. Who's been checking up a lot more on me than usual.

And! I have this wild hunch that he's doing this as a favour for you. It's not, right? You'd never ask a favour from Mycroft. I can't even think of a situation when you'd be desperate enough to.

...

Well, I guess that's all I have for you today. Call me back when you've got the time, why won't you. Or after you've heard this message.

Or now.

Now would be good too, Sherlock.

Just...

I miss you."

He brought the phone down from his ear and ended the call. The last three words had slipped past his lips before he could stop them and now, he wasn't sure what to think.

Slowly, he rose from where he was sitting on the armchair and made his way to the table. Then, with hands shaking, he picked up his friend's iPhone and deleted the new voice-mail message.

_Everyone I know_

_Every passing day_

_Everything means nothing_

John let himself sink deeper into the grey cushions and sighed, eyes darting between the small holes in the walls, the stacks of cardboard boxes in the corner and to the armchair opposite him. The chair was empty - had been untouched for the past few months, and he was going to keep it that way.

Nobody was to sit in his chair. Or use his sheets. Or touch his coat. Or even his scarf - that silky blue cloth he'd loved so dearly. No one was even allowed to use the hat. Not that anyone would've wanted to use that ridiculous excuse for a hat in the first place, but John was protective all the same.

He stared at the chair opposite him; stared at how the cloth was collecting a fine layer of dust, stared at how the distance between them seemed even further, and blinked.

Something bubbled in the pit of his gut and he felt the start of a headache coming on.

Slowly, he turned his head and let his eyes scan over the table - the unusually neat table; with papers and files stacked nicely in one corner and a wrinkled brown box in another corner. John hesitated for a moment, before getting up and trudging over to study the contents on the box.

His head started to throb.

Gently, he picked the violin up from where it was sitting amongst the other belongings and carefully brushed his calloused fingers over the neck. His eyes traced over the polished wood; every inch, every contour.

His chest began to ache.

With shivering hands, he thumbed the thick strings and listened as it as it resonated its dull notes across the four blank walls. John closed his eyes.

The bubbling in his stomach had risen to the back of his throat.

A vision flashed before him in the darkness; of slender, ghostly fingers plucking away on the strings he now stroked. He dared not speak. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard it; a rich, sonorous voice calling to him.

He couldn't breathe.

His hand tightened around the violin and he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to leave now, didn't want to open his eyes. He couldn't. He had to see him again, just one more time. There was so much he needed to do, to say...

Another image formed in his mind's eye and he almost smiled. A pale face, framed with raven black curls, and with features so sharp, and cheekbones so cutting. And his eyes; his icy blue eyes that could pierce your very soul. He watched as the thin lips parted and he heard the same low voice speak again.

_"Goodbye, John..."_

_Everything I do_

_I'm still a part of you_

_Everything means nothing_

John cursed under his breath as he fumbled around in his pocket. It was bad enough he didn't have an umbrella, but the wind was getting his shirt (never mind his jacket) soaked in a matter of seconds. By the time he managed to fish his phone out, the screen had already gone dark.

John sighed and made his way to the narrow lane of shelter outside a closed bakery before setting his bag of groceries down. Hastily, he wiped the screen on his wet jeans before reading the message:

_Let's go home._

_SH_

He froze; the breath caught in his lungs, and re-reads the message.

_No._

_This is wrong. It can't be him._

John blinked down hard and scrutinized at the text again; taking each letter apart and double-checking them to make sure he got it right. Still, the words didn't change. And neither did the last two letters.

His heart began to race.

_Don't be daft, John._

The pounding had reached his ears by now.

He lifted his head in an effort to clear the drumming. But in that instant, he knew that he'd made the worst decision possible. Because everything went haywire from there.

Because, in that moment, he recognized that dark coat flapping around that elegant figure in the near distance.

_Stop it._

John shook his head slowly, wide eyes still glued to the person across the street. His lips parted a little.

_Just stop it._

He watched as his friend smiled at him, dark curls plastered to his white face by the rain. And despite said rain, he held his chin up and blinked slowly, patiently.

Expectantly.

John felt something burn in his gut as he bent down to pick up his bag of groceries. He straightened up; keeping his eyes trained on the gravel in front of his feet, and started to walk.

He stepped out; head bowed against the rain, and clenched his fists. One. Two.

He felt his nails as they dug into his palms. Three. Four.

His walk turned into a stride. Five.

His shoulders began to shake and his breathing grew ragged. Six.

Seven.

Eight. He'd past the figure now, his neck stiff as stone.

Nine. He couldn't lift his head. He didn't want to. Didn't want to see the face that had haunted him for the past few years. Not the person who'd left him crumbling in a ditch.

Not the signs of resignation and dashed hopes in his tired eyes.

Ten.

_"How could you..."_

"...John?"

It was just the rain.

_I'm okay_

_You're alright_

_I will miss you_

_Miss you one last time_

He slouched in his chair, his fingers ghosting across the violin, and his grey eyes watched as the strings vibrated and produced odd _twangs_ that bounced off the walls. Sherlock released a slow, steady breath as he heard the door downstairs creak open. There was two low _thuds_ followed by a lighter, softer one before the door closed.

_John...?_

_No. Shut up. It's not him._

_You know it's not him._

His eyelids slid shut as he sucked in another breath. The intruder was making his way up the stairs now, judging by the heavy footsteps that reverberated through the walls.

He. Yes, he was a male. And with money. Leather shoes. A well-off man. With a height of about 1.85 metres and a weight of... He opened his eyes, not even bothering to turn around as the door to his flat opened.

"Mycroft."

There was a tense silence as his brother's eyes bored into the back of his armchair before he stepped in, calmly closing the door behind him and resting his black umbrella against the wall. Sherlock set his violin down and tugged the blue sheet tighter around him, bringing his knees closer to his chest.

The older Holmes sighed and walked forward, the dusty carpet muffling his footsteps. He leaned against the chair as Sherlock shunned away from him, squeezing himself into a tighter ball.

"Out."

Nobody moved.

"Get. Out."

The words came out louder through his gritted teeth and Mycroft rolled his eyes. He lifted a hand gingerly before deciding against it and letting it fall back limply to his side. There was another moment of quiet as the politician continued to stare at his younger brother, blinking slowly, and the detective kept his gaze carefully trained on his toes.

Then the silence was broken.

"You need to stop acting like a child, Sherlock." His voice was low, stern. Sherlock granted a soft huff, to which his brother smoothly ignored. "And you can stop worrying about him. He'll come back."

"I'm not worrying about him."

"No, you're not. But you miss him." Mycroft waited to be interrupted, but when he wasn't, he continued. "And we'll bring him back."

A third stretch of still air.

"...Leave. Now."

Mycroft straightened up, retrieved his umbrella and left briskly, leaving Sherlock alone. Sherlock, who had not looked up to see the curve of a small smile upon his brother's lips.


End file.
